


I Will Wait For You

by storyranger



Series: The Prince and The Drifter [2]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Anxiety, Boys Kissing, Elias is trying so damn hard to be a good ally, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Islamic rules and customs, Kissing, M/M, Mustafa deserves a million and one hugs, No Blood, Scars, Shower Sex (Implied), american fascism, canonically-Muslim character, cuddling for warmth, mentions of police brutality, past self-harm, president voldemort isn't mentioned but like his presence is their universe can be heavily felt, racial profiling, should I have majored in theology instead of comp sci, there's so much kissing to make up for the shit I put these boys through, we live in a dystopian hellscape, we'll never know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 21:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15738051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyranger/pseuds/storyranger
Summary: well I came home, like a stoneand I fell heavy into your armsthese days of dust, which we've knownwill blow away with this new sunAfter getting murdered by Finn, Elias just wants to find a bed and sleep for a week. Mustafa intends to help. Chapters can be read as stand-alone oneshots if needed. Chapter 1 involves getting stopped by the cops and Chapters 2 and Chapter 3 each have mentions of past-self harm and scars.





	1. I Don’t Wanna Be Here Anymore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ciara_in_cotton_socks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciara_in_cotton_socks/gifts).



> I’m assume that you’ve read the tags, but to review, this story includes: Chapter 1, implied racism, racial profiling, mentions of police brutality; Chapters 2 &3, discussions of past self-harm and depictions of the scars said harm has left behind. If any of these are things you are currently dealing with or have dealt with in the past, I wish you all the love I can give. PLEASE take care of yourself, whether that means avoiding this story for safety or reading it for catharsis. The chapters can probably stand alone as one-shots, too, so if you can handle one thing and not the other you could just read the chapters you’re comfortable with.  
> This will make a lot more sense if you’ve read [**Comfy**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035876) and [**Mustafa Ali Saves the World**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692186).  
>  The chapter titles are songs from my writing playlist because what, you expect me to come up with real chapter titles now? I’m not a goddamn wizard

_February 19, 2018_

_Phoenix, Arizona_

Elias had no quarrel with Seth Rollins. Hell, with The Shield, even. They seemed like three good guys, and Elias was secretly looking forward to Dean’s return; he alone in this godforsaken company had at least _some_ taste in music. But tonight, Seth was the roadblock between Elias and the Elimination Chamber, and a crumbling one at that. Picking him off was almost too easy.

But just as Seth limps sheepishly out of the ring, in swaggers a fresh Finn Bálor, ready to stomp Elias’s ribs through his spine with a quick and brutal Coup-de-Gras. It’s almost over before it begins.

The Bayley infatuation may have been fully supplanted by confusion over a certain pretty-boy cruiserweight, but having his ass handed to him by the Adonis of Ireland sits poorly. His breathing is laboured by the time he gets backstage, and the trainers descend on him immediately to whisk him away and fuss.

“Yep,” he growls, when they ask him if it hurts.  “ _Fucking hell_ ,” he snarls, when they poke him to prove it for themselves. “Huh?” he grunts, when a gentle hand lands on his shoulder and the aforementioned pretty-boy cruiserweight hops up on the bench to sit next to him.

“I thought you might need a ride. That’s kind of your thing, right?” Mustafa says with a grin.

Elias would prefer his _thing_ to be his music, but old reputations die hard, he supposes.

“Thanks.”

* * *

 

 They can’t be more than fifteen minutes into the hour-long drive to whatever dive corporate’s booked this week when the wail of a police siren cuts through the comfortable silence in their van. The flashing lights swiftly turn the peaceful desert around them into perhaps the world’s most disappointing rave.

“What the fuck’s their problem?” Elias asks, irritation dripping from his words.

“It’ll be fine. We weren’t doing anything wrong, anyways.” Mustafa’s voice is cheery, but it’s forced. The tension in his hands betrays him; he’s got a death-grip on the steering wheel, knuckles paling rapidly from their usual gorgeous shade. Elias does a 180° from annoyance to concern, remembering how different the stakes are tonight for a Pakistani Muslim then a white guy from Philly.

(Elias is accustomed to putting himself in other people’s shoes; it’s what makes him such a good drifter. He just isn’t used to letting his empathy show; that’s what makes him such an efficient curmudgeon.)

And so, even though his ribs were burning, there was only one thing to be done. Perhaps Mustafa would find it patronizing, but right now Elias was willing to risk basically any emotional reaction if it meant Mustafa was physically safe.

 “Switch places with me.”

 “It’ll be fine,” Mustafa repeats. “I used to _be_ a cop.”

Elias shakes his head, urgently. “That was a long time ago.”

“Two years.”

“Time is different now.”

Mustafa could have said “that doesn’t make sense.” Or, “I’m not scared.” But what he actually says is “okay,” with so much relief and adoration in the word that Elias can feel terror spiking through him.

Because it did.

And Mustafa was.

And if Mustafa Ali was scared, then things in this country really _had_ gone to shit.

“Licence and registration?” the cop demands as Elias rolls down the window. He hands them over, silently.

“You aware your taillight is out?”

“Sorry, officer. It’s a rental.”

“What’s a guy from Philly doing out here in the desert in the middle of the night?”

“Just trying to get to the next hotel.”

“You on tour or something? You musicians or something?”

“We’re wrestlers.”

“Huh. I used to watch that kiddie nonsense. Loved me some Hulk Hogan. He still wrestling?” the cop asks, and Elias cringes. In his peripheral vision, he can see Mustafa’s jaw twitch.

“Not at the moment, officer.”

“Shame. I need to check something. Don’t move.”

The officer starts back towards the police car, still holding the licence. Elias and Mustafa both take a deep breath.

“Hey,” Mustafa say, giving Elias’s hand a squeeze, “you’re doing great. Relax.”

“I’ll relax when he gives my ID back.”

“You got priors I should worry about, Samson?” Mustafa jokes, and Elias manages a tiny smile. Mustafa is still holding his hand, and Elias can feel him trembling, ever so slightly. _And yet here he is_ , Elias reflects, _trying to get_ me _to relax_.

There’s a knock on the car door, and Mustafa quickly lets go.

“Can you explain why this rental is listed under the name Mustafa Ali?”

“That’s me.” His voice is perfectly neutral, but the smile on his face is fake. It looks grotesque to Elias, a parody of itself, but the officer doesn’t know any different.

“I’m just taking my turn,” adds Elias, and the officer seems frustrated, but there’s nothing more for him to ask.

“I’ll let you off with a warning about the taillight then, but you’re lucky I’m not fining you. We take safety very seriously in this county.”

“Thank you, officer,” Elias grits out, and Mustafa flashes another false grin and says, “You have a safe night, sir.”

“Thanks,” the officer grunts. He stomps back to his car, slams the door, kills the lights, and drives off into the night. Elias and Mustafa just sit there, watching the car disappear, breathing deeply.

“Swap you?” Mustafa finally breaks the silence, and Elias nods. Eases himself out of the van. Mustafa nimbly slides over into the driver’s seat while Elias makes his way around to the passengers’ side, stopping to check the taillights.

There’s not a damn thing wrong with either of them.

The overwhelming outrage at what has just transpired coupled with the throbbing pain in both his ribs and his back is enough to knock the wind from his sails. He sinks to the ground, heedless of the dust and the bitter cold. Mustafa’s out of the van and beside him in a flash, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders. He sags against Mustafa’s chest and Mustafa responds by stroking his hair, gentle fingers slowly working through the coarse tangles. He doesn’t even feel himself shaking until he realizes they’re quivering in unison, synced frequencies threatening to vibrate them out of this dimension and away to somewhere where cops don’t lie, where maniacs don’t rule, where everyone is as full of light and love as the man currently holding him upright. He’s angry at himself, now; angry that Mustafa’s out here in the dust comforting him instead of clean and warm in the car. Mustafa’s the one who deserves comfort. He manages to sit himself upright but he can’t bring himself to push Mustafa away, instead choosing to lean against the back of the van while Mustafa continues his attentions. Freed from the task of holding him up, Mustafa laces his other hand with Elias’s, squeezing it like he had before. He catches Elias’s eye, and Elias opens his mouth to say something; as if _anything_ could ease the knot of guilt that’s twisting in his gut.

But then Mustafa’s lips are on his, and the apology dies in his throat as his senses get flooded by the smell, the feel, the taste. Nothing seems more important to him in this moment then burying both hands into Mustafa’s gorgeous hair. Elias had perhaps envisioned what kissing Mustafa would be like, but never in a million years would he have believed that it would happen sitting in the dirt on the side of a desert highway in the middle of the night. Mustafa’s pressed up against him so hard it hurts, pinning him against the van with a white hot sting shooting though him like lighting but he doesn’t care, the only thing that matters now is kissing Mustafa back as hard as he possibly can. Their mouths crash together again and again like waves upon the shore, only halting when Elias begins to gasp for air like a drowning man.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Mustafa sooths, pivoting to sit beside him and beginning to rub his back. Elias’s head is spinning, so he focusses on trying to slow his breathing down until it stops burning. “Forgot your ribs for a second. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Elias rasps, “no apologizing. I wanted it.”

And Mustafa lights up like a goddamn party boat.

Somehow Mustafa manages to bundle his sorry ass back into the car, and he’s really hurting now but he doesn’t care because Mustafa is holding his hand and there’s painkillers in the trunk if he needs them and it’s no longer even a question where he’s sleeping tonight, not from the quiet, easy way Mustafa asks if he’s been tested lately (yes) and if he’s okay with latex condoms (also yes).

* * *

 

 The meds have kicked in nicely by the time they park. Mustafa grabs all their luggage except the guitar case with one hand and Elias’s hand with the other, dragging him gently but urgently inside. They separate and attempt to act indifferent in the lobby while Mustafa grabs the keycard, but once the elevator door closes Mustafa pulls him down into another kiss and frankly it’s a miracle they both still have all their clothes on when they stumble at last into their hotel room. The clothes last approximately a second longer than the bags before they, too, are haphazardly discarded on the floor and the two men tumble onto the double bed, so giddy and flustered it’s difficult to tell they’re adults instead of teenagers.

Someone gets blown that night, and someone gets fucked; the details, Elias might add, are truly none of your business.


	2. Far From Home (The Raven)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how you have that one part of your body you just can’t quite bring yourself to love? Like, you can imagine all the sordid saucy things you want to do to a lover but thinking about them touching that piece makes your skin crawl. And if you’re really, really lucky, one day you find someone you trust enough that you let them near that part of you and it feels like the most intimate fucking thing you’ve ever done? Yeah. This chapter is about that.

_now I'll be bold, as well as strong_

_and use my head alongside my heart_

_so take my flesh, and fix my eyes_

_a tethered mind free from the lies_

_February 20, 2018_

_Phoenix, Arizona_

“Do you wear them all the time?” Mustafa asks, quietly. A sliver of light is breaking through the curtains, and he’s running his fingers over the bracelets and other adornments that circle Elias’s wrists. It’s an impressive collection, built up over multiple years. Elias never usually lets anyone near his forearms. Even the trainers steered clear unless they absolutely needed to. But he can’t bring himself to bat Mustafa’s hand away, even as the tendrils of anxiety begin to spread through his chest. He settles for fiddling with his own hair, which has punished him for his lack of grooming the night before by becoming a rat’s nest.

“The bracelets stay on until they fall off. The scarves and bandanas only come off in the shower.” Mustafa raises an eyebrow, and Elias shrugs. “They take ages to dry otherwise.”

“Why?” Mustafa prods, and Elias knows he’s not asking for an explanation of evaporation from a porous fabric. He doesn’t know what to say. How do you share your darkest secret with someone you barely know without making them flee instantly?

You don’t.

_It was never going to go anywhere. You’re too much of a jackass_

Elias grabs hold of Mustafa’s hand, shoving it roughly under one of the looser scarves. His breath catches as Mustafa’s fingers ghost across his skin, gently exploring the rows and rows of scar tissue, a railroad built from the regrets of a misspent adolescence. He’s been dreading this day, the idea of discovery by someone other than the trainers becoming more and more abhorrent with every mile he puts between himself and his past. And to explain it to someone whose religion explicitly forbade such actions? _Where to even start?_ He braces himself for condemnation, interrogation, or pity. Of all possible reactions, the one he loathes most is pity.

He’s not prepared for how Mustafa reacts, which is to grasp Elias’s hand and softly murmur “thank you.”

“Pardonfuck?” Elias blurts, unable to contain the shock.

“It can’t be easy for you. To share that piece of yourself. So thanks, for trusting me, for letting me in. I get the feeling you don’t do that much.”

“Oh.” Of course it makes perfect sense, laid out like that. Perfectly rational. Perfectly _Mustafa_.

“No one’s ever asked before,” Elias mumbles. “Most people just think I’m eccentric. Or some freak with a tragic backstory.”

“You _are_ eccentric,” Mustafa says with a soft laugh, and Elias can’t help letting out a tiny laugh of his own.

 “I guess I am.”

“Not a freak, though. I’d never say you were a freak.”

“I’d usually say I’m a curmudgeon.”

“Nah. _Adrian_ is a curmudgeon. Still love him, though.”

“You love everyone.”

“Not fascists. I draw the line hard at fascists.”

“Do they count as people?” Elias teases, but Mustafa pauses before he replys. When he does, his voice is lower and the tone deadly serious.

“Fascists are people. That’s what makes them so terrifying.”

“I’m sorry. I wish…” Elias continues, the bitterness in his words unmistakeable, “I wish it wasn’t like this. Some days I just don’t want to be here anymore.”

“So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

“You just quoted Gandalf to me. I can’t believe I let a nerd into my bed.”

“Gandalf’s a badass.”

“Faramir’s the real hero.”

“Oh, _I’m_ the nerd? Look at you, racking up points for obscurity.”

“Faramir’s not obscure.”

“But to know of his _heroism_ you’ve either seen the extended editions or, more likely, read the actual books.”

“People still watch the theatrical release?”

Mustafa laughs, playfully shoving at Elias with a battle cry of “hipster nerd!” and Elias takes the bait, resulting in an affectionate tussle. It ends only when Mustafa gains the upper hand and steals a kiss. Elias responds by burying a hand in Mustafa’s hair and pulling him in for a second one and Mustafa, spurred on by Elias’s enthusiasm, straddles the still-seated man and tangles his own fingers into Elias’s wild locks.

“I know that you may have heard,” Mustafa says between gasps for air when they finally break apart, “Islam prohibits self-harm. Which is true. But I promise you, I’m not going to get weird about this. The Qur’an says only Allah can judge.” He puts a hand gently on Elias’s forearm. “You can come to me, if something happens. Something you can’t cope with alone.”

“I kinda figured you weren’t judging. You know, based on the lack of hysterics or lecturing.”

“I wanted it on the record.”

“Oh, we’re making a record, now? Who said you could crash my solo act?”

Mustafa is grining again. “You know, you’re _really funny_.”

“Isn’t that what people say when they think a guy is ugly?”

“Oh, come off it, you’re handsome as sin and you know it. You’ve got that whole mountain man thing going on, but then you dress like a rockstar.”

Elias can’t hide his smile at such a wholehearted compliment, and Mustafa reaches out and caresses his cheek. “You know, I think you’ve smiled more in the last five minutes then I’ve seen you smile all week.”

“It’s your damn optimism. You’re contagious.”

“Good.”

Elias’s phone blares, some indie-rock song signalling it’s time to go back to real life. He’s not wrestling again till Wednesday night, but he’d booked the cheapest ticket available which means leaving this morning. He couldn’t have anticipated having a reason to stay, but he still feels a strange pang of regret. 15 minutes to shower, 10 minutes to groom, 8 to dress. In 33 minutes he and Mustafa will part ways and the capriciousness of tour schedules could mean they don’t cross paths again for weeks. Mustafa deserves more than that. Mustafa deserves someone who can really be there for him.

“My bus leaves in an hour,” he begins, gently pushing Mustafa off him. “I gotta shower now if I’m gonna make it.” He slowly stands and starts to work the kinks out of his spine. Mustafa watches him, pouting.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Elias grunts, leaning down to kiss Mustafa’s forehead. “I waited till you were awake to run off, didn’t I?”

Mustafa quickly takes advantage of the resumed proximity, rising up on his knees and starting to run his hands over the remaining knots in Elias’s back. He’ll have to cut his shower short, but the tension in his muscles is melting at Mustafa’s touch and he can’t pull himself away. “When’s your show tonight?” Mustafa asks, and even though he has nothing to be ashamed of Elias immediately feels guilty.

“It’s tomorrow.”

“Where are you sleeping?” Elias swears he can _hear_ Mustafa’s frown.

“I’m a big boy, Ali. I’ll figure something out.”

 “Stay. Please?”

Elias is torn between distrust and an intense fondness. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to go.” Mustafa stands up, takes Elias’s hand. Elias can feel his resolve dissolving as Mustafa stretches upward to kiss him.

“Mustafa,” Elias rasps, “The ticket’s non-refundable.”

“So I’ll buy it off you. And I’ll drive you after my show. We can get brunch, do something fun for once. I don’t have to be at the arena till halfway through Smackdown. We could go to dinner, even.”

“You’ve done enough.”

“I _want_ to do this.”

“Mustafa,” he argues, voice almost pleading, “I’m not a _nice_ guy.”

“I don’t need you to change who you are, Elias. I can roll with some rough edges.”

“I don’t know how to be someone’s boyfriend.”

Mustafa grins and kisses his cheek. “How will you learn,” he whispers, his breath hot against Elias’s ear, “If you never practise?”

And Elias is undone.


	3. Blood//Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to the chapter title, there is no blood, I promise.  
> But but but! Blood//Water is an amazing song by grandson that you should be listening to!!!

“I should have that shower,” Elias murmurs, an hour or so later. He’s unwilling to leave to comfort of Mustafa’s arms, but he’s no longer able to ignore the dried sweat on his torso, the grease in his hair, the stickiness on his thighs.

Mustafa senses the source of his hesitation. He rests his chin on Elias’s shoulder, asking, “Want some company?”

He does, more than anything. But it would mean being more naked and vulnerable than he’s been with anyone before. It’s a ridiculous thing to balk at, considering what they’d done last night, what they’d done moments ago. Yet logic doesn’t quell the storm suddenly churning in his gut.

He swallows and tries to muster a smile as he answers, “I’ll get the water running. I’ll holler when it’s ready, okay?”

Mustafa nods against his shoulder, plants a kiss on his cheek before flopping back to starfish across the bed. Elias escapes to the bathroom, shutting the door and collapsing against it. He’s breathing hard as he turns on the tap, tries to calm down as he shucks off his shirt and boxers. _You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Samson_ , he scolds, gripping the sink and staring at his reflection. He stands there, panting and staring, for so long that Mustafa gets concerned and knocks on the door.

“Elias, is everything alright?”

Elias grits his teeth and opens the door.

“Oh,” is all Mustafa says, taking in the sight of Elias, surrounded by billowing clouds of steam, naked except for his arms. “Oh!” Mustafa repeats, realization dawning on his face. “Fuck, Elias,” he whispers, pulling him into a hug, “I didn’t think. I’m so sorry.” It makes Elias miserable, to hear Mustafa blaming himself when all he’d done was offer something Elias had clearly wanted. “I’ll just shower after you, okay? Give you some space.”

Elias finds an unfamiliar lump in his throat, the tangle of emotions in his gut making speech impossible. So instead of speaking he grips Mustafa’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“You don’t want me to go?” Mustafa guesses, and Elias nods, holding out his other arm to Mustafa.

“You want me to take them off? If I do it it’ll be easier?” Elias nods again. “Okay. I’m gonna turn off the water for now and then we’ll take it slow, alright? You don’t have to watch,” he adds, but when Elias doesn’t look away he simply points to the oldest looking bracelet he has and asks, “Do you remember where you got this one?”

“Mhm.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Elias does, as Mustafa methodically works through knot after knot, going so painstakingly slowly that Elias wonders for a brief moment if there will be _any_ hot water left in the hotel to shower with once he gets through with them all, especially considering his idiot stunt earlier, leaving their tap on for so long. He doesn’t want him to go any faster, though. Slow is good. Slow is comfy. He’s told him the story of almost every bracelet on his right arm by the time Mustafa straightens, giving him a gentle peck on the cheek before beginning to pull off his sweater.

“How warm do you want it?” Elias asks, stepping in to the tub and beginning to fiddle dubiously with the taps.

“Go as hot as you can stand, and then I’ll just have to stand closer when I inevitably start shivering.”

“Shit,” is all Elias can manage when he tugs the diverter and is immediately drenched in a torrent of icy water. Mustafa waits for a moment before stepping in behind him, immediately flinching and wrapping his arms around Elias’s chest, his face resting lightly against the taller man’s spine. It no longer feels like ice chips are raining on their faces, but the water is lukewarm at best.

“Looks like we’re both going to freeze,” Mustafa remarks wryly, and Elias lets out a quick chuckle before groaning in annoyance.

“Forgot to get extra shampoo from the front desk,” he grumbles, eyeing the tiny bottle sitting on the bath-caddy shelf with its matching conditioner friend and frowning. “Useless piece of shit.”

“You can share mine,” Mustafa declares, and before Elias can even think to refuse him Mustafa’s hands are on his scalp, gently massaging the shampoo through his hair as a cloud of the spiced-citrus scent he’s come to associate with Mustafa envelopes him. After a while he taps his shoulder, indicating Elias should turn around, and then Mustafa works the lather through his beard with the same gentle meticulousness.  He moves to start on his own hair but Elias grabs the bottle from his hand and Mustafa takes the hint, resting his hands lightly around his waist instead. Elias, however, finds he doesn’t have quite enough elbow room like this, so he gently nudges him a foot or so away and Mustafa has to put one careful hand on Elias’s wrist to prevent himself from slipping. Elias feels an electric tingling at the touch, but for the first time it’s not from anxiety. It’s certainly _distracting_ enough that he squeezes far too much of the bright orange shampoo into his hand, but there’s no discomfort whatsoever. He starts to work the lather through Mustafa’s hair, fingers clumsy but affectionate.

“After the shit we did last night,” he asks, voice thick, “why does this feel like the most intimate thing I’ve ever done in my life?”

“That feels like a rhetorical question,” Mustafa says, and Elias follows his pointed gaze towards his own hand, the dark skin resting on pale scar tissue. It _hadn’t_ been, but now…

“Huh,” Elias says, and places his free hand on top, their fingers tangling together almost instantly.

“Thank you,” Mustafa whispers again, hand still on his wrist, and this time Elias knows he’s not thanking him for the shampoo job, but for something intangible and far more meaningful.

“You’re shivering.”

“Told you. Inevitable.”

“Rinse off. We need to get you dry.”

“I’m not that cold,” Mustafa insists, hands wandering through thick crop of dark hair on Elias’s lower abdomen, eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“It’s your funeral,” Elias quips, face stern but eyes smiling. After all the tension they’ve built up since they stepped into the shower, it’s not like another orgasm is going to take very long, and he can tell Mustafa knows it. “Saves me the cleanup,” he adds, and it’s all the permission Mustafa needs.

* * *

 

After, when Mustafa is bundled back up into sweatpants and yet another crewneck and Elias is satisfied their budding relationship isn’t going to be prematurely ended by hypothermia, the ache in his chest will build again. They’ll fall back into the usual pattern, Mustafa thinking three steps ahead and Elias tolerating the fussing as graciously as he can. But it feels good, to let his protective instincts bubble to the forefront. It plants a seed inside his mind, one that could eventually convince him that they really are on equal footing, after all.

 

The protective instinct will come in handy at the end of the night, when Mustafa’s arm is too battered to even think of driving but Elias still isn’t feeling well enough to do the stupidly long haul to the next tour stop. He’ll find himself calling in his favour with Drew Gulak, who’s less than thrilled but still smart enough to recognize when he’s getting off easy. Gulak drives with both hands on the wheel, never more then 5mph over the limit, and checks his blind spots even when they haven’t seen another soul on the road for nearly an hour, but he keeps his mouth shut when Mustafa forgoes proper seating procedure and opts for curling into Elias’s chest instead. (He does insist on seatbelts, though.)

Privately Elias had always thought of Tony Nese as a bit of a self-absorbed asshole, but as he listens to the gentle way Nese drones on at Gulak to keep him focused on the road, masterfully picking topics that are interesting enough to keep them both awake but nothing which would distract him from the task at hand, he’ll realise he’s been wrong about the Premier Athlete. The man is a sweetheart, and clearly head over heels for Gulak, and Elias will make a mental note to beat the crap out of Gulak if he ever hurts Tony again.

Perfect driver though he may be, Drew won’t be able to protect them entirely from America’s crumbling infrastructure; now and then they’ll hit a pothole, jostling Mustafa just enough that he can’t stop himself letting out a low whimper of pain. Elias will let him grip his hand tight and card his free hand through Mustafa’s hair until Mustafa can settle again. When they finally reach the hotel, both Tony and Drew will help Elias get Mustafa inside and patched up as well as they can manage, because even if Adrian Neville is gone for good, the bond he instilled in the cruiserweights still remains in times of crisis.

 

But that’s all ahead of them right now. In this moment, what matters is arguing about when brunch time ends and lunch begins. Their most pressing concern is looking up increasingly dumb tourist attractions to threaten the other with. Nothing could be more important than debating if they even want to get out of bed before they absolutely need to be on the road, then realizing it’s too late to switch to late checkout and hauling ass to get packed before they get fined.

So what if the bad shit hits them when the good stuff’s barely begun? Mustafa deserves someone who can be there for him, and maybe Elias is a shitty boyfriend, but there was a time when he was a shitty guitarist, and an even shittier wrestler. But there’s one thing Elias’s mama stressed to him more than the value of thrift and that was the importance of practise.

And if anyone on this earth is worth the time this will take to practise, Elias knows its Mustafa Ali.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooof. You read that whole thing. Doing okay? Just so you know, yes, I’ve dealt with self-harming behaviours in the past. Mine was compulsive biting/picking, not cutting, but writing chapters 2 and 3 was still hella cathartic for me. Stim toys are awesome and therapy is the bomb dot com. Loads of love.


End file.
